


Ineffable Fictober 2019

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fictober 2019, Ineffable Inktober, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: A collection of fills forIneffable Inktober, but in fic form.





	1. At the Ritz

The staff at the Ritz know their regulars. Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley are a little… eccentric, but always gracious and polite, so any requests they have are accommodated promptly. Mostly they involve a stupendous amount of extra desserts and more wine than should be possible for two people to drink, so they’re rather easy to please.

It’s presumed they’re an item. One never shows up without the other, but it’s the way they move around each other that makes everybody sure. There’s a deep familiarity, an ease that reflects many years spent learning to share space, the anticipation and expectation of action in certain contexts. (Which is to say, Mr. Crowley always pulls out Mr. Fell’s chair for him, and Mr. Fell always smiles brilliantly at it like it’s the first time.)

The day after everything gets weird and then not, they come in as usual. But there’s something different about the way they sit, like they can’t help but be drawn to each other. Mr. Crowley practically falls out of his chair towards Mr. Fell, who looks positively incandescent with joy. The maitre’d thinks about sending them a reasonably nice bottle of champagne, but then they order a positively ancient bottle of Veuve Clicquot nobody thought would actually get sold. 

After the bill is settled, Nico the busser screws up the courage to approach the table. 

“Is there something we should be congratulating you for, sirs?” They ask. 

“Oh, not at all, my dear.” Mr. Fell’s eyes twinkle. “It’s more of… an affirmation of things as they have been. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of what you have in front of you. Or at your side, in this case.” He and Mr. Crowley twine their hands together, and Nico busies themselves with clearing the dessert plates so the gentlemen don’t see them smiling. 

They walk out of the restaurant holding hands. The news spreads quickly to the front and back of the house, because that’s definitely a thing that hasn’t happened until now.


	2. Eden

Cohabitation, like any relationship, entails negotiation and compromise; hopefully in a way that is mutually amenable to all parties involved. So it is with the ambient music in the flat they now share.

Aziraphale would be perfectly happy playing nothing but instrumental music, but Crowley complains there’s nothing to sing along to. (Which of course begs the question what he sings along _to_. Instead of answering, he blushes most fetchingly and flees to the plant room.) Eventually they find a few artists and songs that are agreeable to both of them, and Crowley says he’ll use them to seed Pandora, whatever that is.

Their home is filled with music; not all of it is familiar from what he knows of Crowley’s collection, but it is still pleasing with most of the characteristics of the… seeds. Every so often Crowley will hear a song that isn’t quite right and snap his fingers. One day Aziraphale finally asks him what he’s trying to accomplish when he does that.

He thinks for a moment. “You know how certain plants need to be staked so they grow in a certain direction?”

Aziraphale nods, even though he’s not sure where this metaphor is going.

“Most of the time, a little guidance is all they need. But sometimes, a branch or shoot gets out of line, to the point where it needs to be removed. For the good of the plant itself and as a warning to anybody else even thinking of growing out of line.” He glowers, and even across the flat Aziraphale can feel the plants quail.

“Are we still talking about our Pandora?”

Crowley shrugs. “It’s the same principle.”

Later he comes into the plant room to hear Crowley darkly threatening one of the begonias. This one is not as lushly verdant as its siblings, but it looks like it’s trying its best.

“Are you aiming for perfection in the realm of things you can control, my dear? It seems rather exhausting.”

He turns towards Aziraphale. For the first time in a while, Crowley looks tired, and a little bit sad. Aziraphale puts an arm over his shoulders, kisses the serpent’s mark next to his temple.

“Doing one’s best has nothing to do with being perfect, darling. Not for you, or for them.”

“All right, angel. I’ll give it a think.”

Aziraphale kisses him again for good measure and goes to make a cup of tea. 

Some days later, he goes in to the plant room to let Crowley know coffee’s ready. He’s talking to the begonia. Not threatening or cursing it, but actually talking. It looks greener than it did previously, although it’s not caught up with the others.

Aziraphale hides a smile. “Would you like me to pour you some coffee, dear?”

Crowley looks up. “If you would. Thanks, angel.”

He comes out a short time later, and they sit for a while, drinking. The Pandora plays a song that is definitely not within the scope of the characteristics they’ve set for it. Crowley frowns and snaps his fingers.

He’s not wrong though. Sometimes things do need a little coaxing to develop properly. But only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The type of begonia is specifically an [angel wing](https://worldoffloweringplants.com/begonia-x-corallina-angel-wing-begonia/), aka _begonia corallina_. It seemed a bit on the nose, but then I saw the scientific name and, well.


	3. crossover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this takes place post-series for both shows.

“I think we might be here a while,” the man next to Crowley says. “Buy you a coffee?”

“Sure, why not.” 

He gets the attention of the barista, and orders two maroccinos. While they wait Crowley studies his new companion. Tousled dark hair, long enough for the locks to start curling. Blue eyes. A bit of beard that accentuates his rather nice jawline. Not really Crowley’s type (he hasn’t had a type that isn’t Aziraphale in aeons), but he understands the attraction aesthetically and intellectually. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Crowley jerks his head at Aziraphale and the other man, who appear to be deep in conversation. He’s more striking than attractive: impeccable suiting, sharp cheekbones and chin; an intense, curious stare Crowley can feel even across the room. 

His companion laughs softly. “Knowing Hannibal? Could be anything from the best place in town to get squid-ink pasta or the name of somebody who has copies of the secret love letters between the Borgia siblings.” 

“Why would siblings in an incestuous relationship leave any trail of correspondence?” It’s not like Crowley knew Cesare particularly well, nor did he have much occasion to observe him with his sister, but it seemed unlike him.

The other man shrugs. “It could be bullshit. But it’s been a long time since he’s lied to me.” 

Crowley doesn’t really know what to say to an admission like that, especially to a stranger, but thankfully he’s saved from having to find an answer by the barista bringing their drinks.

“Grazie,” the other man says, giving a small, polite smile that makes the girl blush. He lifts his drink.

“What do you want to toast to?” Crowley asks.

He smiles enigmatically, an expression that appears acquired, learned. From Hannibal, perhaps? “To second chances. And new beginnings.” 

They clink glasses, and Crowley tosses back his maroccino. The cocoa powder is dark and strong, the espresso just this side of scalding. The sweetness of the hot chocolate hits last, a chaser to the bitterness of the rest of the drink. 

It appears Aziraphale and Hannibal’s conversation is done, as they are approaching the coffee bar. Aziraphale offers his hand, and Hannibal shakes it. 

“I do hope you’ll look us up if you’re ever in London, Mr. Lecter. The specialties of our restaurants are of course not the same as those in Italy, but I’m confident they will impress.”

Hannibal smiles, but his eyes remain cool. “That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Fell. If we can ever pry ourselves away from Tuscany, it will be good to see what’s new in London town. And I would love to show Will all the sights.” This smile, at Will, goes all the way to his eyes. 

“I suppose we’ll be on our way then. It was lovely to meet you, and your Will.” Aziraphale beams. Crowley nods farewell at Hannibal and Will. Aziraphale loops his arm around Crowley’s and they step out of the shop. 

“So what did you two talk about, angel? Seems like you had a lot to say to each other.” 

“Oh, this and that. Nothing you’d find particularly interesting, my dear.” Aziraphale’s tone is breezy, but he flushes, a tiny bit.

“Suit yourself.” Aziraphale can have his secrets, as long as they’re together.


	4. reversal

“Excuse us for a moment.” Aziraphale smiles tightly at the motley assemblage in front of him, which includes Beelzebub, Gabriel, and the Antichrist.

He pulls Crowley aside. The demon is wearing a truly ridiculous hat, topped off by a black snake with a red underbelly. They remind him of shoes he’s seen on Earth, and he wonders what Crowley would look like wearing them. Would they accentuate his already lascivious swagger? How much more height would they give him, as he tilts Aziraphale’s chin up with those long, elegant fingers? 

“I assume this is the part where we talk about whatever’s happening. Or not.” Crowley says curtly. He’s pacing around Aziraphale, restless and impatient. 

Aziraphale coughs. “Yes, of course. All this is part of the Great Plan. Why isn’t it proceeding?” 

Crowley glowers at the other angel and demon. They smirk and wave at him and Aziraphale from where they hover protectively behind the Antichrist. 

“I’m aware it’s because of them, you dolt, but why? And how do we get things back on track?” 

“That is a very good question. One that deserves more exploration.” Bollocks. Aziraphale knows that tone, because he’s heard it come out of his mouth on more than occasion when he has no fucking idea what to do and needs to stall. 

But it is an out, so he’ll take it. “Perhaps we need to start an interdepartmental committee, explore what options we have available before we do something truly drastic. After all, Armageddon only happens once.” 

“Brilliant. Splendid.” Crowley claps his hands together, pleased that they’ve decided on a course of action. Aziraphale could swear that’s relief he sees in the demon’s eyes, and it does something to his chest. (Never mind that he’s not actually corporeal at this time; he feels it anyways.) 

“I suppose we’d better get started. Putting the committee together, I mean. Could take a while to hash out all the things we need to consider.” 

Crowley nods. “Right. So where do we do this? Hardly seems appropriate to have this sort of meeting up- or downstairs.” 

Aziraphale smiles. “Can I entice you to one of the restaurants at Selfridges?” 

Crowley lifts his eyebrow. “Seems awfully close to temptation for an angel.” But, Aziraphale notices, he doesn’t say no.

“I assure you, there is very much a difference.” He’s written reams of memos explicating the nuances. 

“Tell me more, then.” Crowley holds out his arm.

Aziraphale takes it. “I’d be glad to.”

—

After a short conversation, Aziraphale and Crowley wink away from the airfield.

“Did we win?” Adam asks. “We’re still here.” 

Gabriel looks at Beelzebub. Zie is still holding the tire iron from the Bentley, which zie lowers. He puts down his flaming sword. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure. But it looks like we’ve gotten a break from both sides.” He smiles at Beelzebub, who returns it. 

“The world is safe, for now,” Zie says. “I suggest we take advantage of that.” 

Finally, the airfield is empty, and it’s just the two of them. Hesitantly, Gabriel puts his arm around Beelzebub’s shoulders. Zie does not pull away, and in fact leans into him. It’s nicer than he ever could have imagined.

“Did we do good today?” Zie asks. 

“I honestly don’t know. But we’re still here. That has to count for something, right?” 

Zie puts an arm around his waist. “I’d like to think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.selfridges.com/US/en/features/info/stores/london/store-services/restaurants-bars/aubaine/) is the restaurant I was thinking of. Selfridges must be huge.


	5. Alpha Centauri

The cottage in the South Downs isn’t a permanent residence (neither of them are the type to stay away from cities for long), but it does have things you can’t get in London. Like clear skies, for instance.

The study is mostly Aziraphale’s, but Crowley has space carved out for a telescope next to a window. A little antique orrery sits on top of a low bookshelf that contains all manner of things concerning astronomy and the celestial: old star charts from ships, prints of comets and constellations, clever astronomical maps from all over the world.

What surprises Aziraphale are the books. Certainly there are modern tomes: Hawking, Sobel, and Sagan among them; but there are also copies of treatises by Copernicus, Kepler, Newton, and Galileo.

“Is this a first edition of _Sidereus Nuncius_?” Aziraphale can scarcely believe Crowley’s had this in his possession this entire time and never told him.

Crowley shrugs. “You never seemed all that interested in astronomy, so it never came up.”

“Well you could have told me that was one of the reasons you wanted to go to Cosimo’s party in 1610. We could have gotten it signed!”

“The author’s signature doesn’t make this more or less special, angel.” He holds the book like it’s precious, with a care Aziraphale has only ever seen exercised with the Bentley (_or him_, a little voice in his head observes).

“But enough of old books. I think we can see Jupiter’s moons tonight, if you want.”

It is strange that in six thousand years on Earth, he has never thought to look up, not in the ways the humans do. And when he spots the moons, stark against the pale stripes of their planet, he feels a bit of awe at not just human ingenuity, but the beauty of creation itself.

—

“So tell me, how did you come by this interest in astronomy?”

Crowley tilts his head, like he’s not sure what angle the question’s coming from. “Like every other human hobby? What exactly are you getting at?”

Aziraphale feels a bit silly now. “Well. There were always rumors that the Fallen remembered bits and pieces of their former lives. And I didn’t know if this was—”

Crowley laughs. “That was way above my level of responsibility. The lamassu had too much actual work creating the stars to pay attention to me. I looked up at the sky like any human on Earth, and I thought they were beautiful, so I wanted to know more about them.”

“So. Can we actually see Alpha Centauri from here?”

Crowley thinks for a moment. “Yeah. I can arrange that.”

He adjusts the telescope, turning the dials this way and that, muttering under his breath the entire time. He frowns and snaps his fingers, looking through the eyepiece until he seems satisfied, and steps away. “Take a look, angel.”

“There are two stars? I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s a binary system. They orbit each other, but until you get close enough, it’s hard to tell they’re not one, but two.”

“How terribly romantic.” Aziraphale does not sigh about it, but he very much wants to.

“Romance has nothing to do with it. It’s the closest star!”

“Does it mean you’re taking me there only out of convenience?”

A pause. “So you really want to go, then?”

“I would go anywhere with you, but yes, I would love to see it, as long as you’re by my side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A first edition Sidereus Nuncius went for about $660,000 [at auction](https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/books-manuscripts/galilei-galileo-sidereus-nuncius-magna-longeq-5388529-details.aspx?from=salesummery&intobjectid=5388529&sid=81f24787-039d-4e9f-a254-db6ab97b0079) in 2010. Crowley's astronomy collection is based in part on the bits of [Edward Tufte's book collection](https://www.christies.com/SaleLanding/index.aspx?intsaleid=22834&lid=1&saletitle=&pg=all&action=paging&sid=81f24787-039d-4e9f-a254-db6ab97b0079) which the Nuncius comes from (especially [this lovely map](https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/books-manuscripts/japanese-astronomy-heitengi-izum-5388586-details.aspx?from=salesummery&intObjectID=5388586&sid=81f24787-039d-4e9f-a254-db6ab97b0079)). For those of us who don't have that much cash to drop, you can see a [digitized version of the Sidereus Nuncius](https://library.si.edu/digital-library/book/sidereusnuncius00gali) here.
> 
> This [list of important astronomy books](https://www.thereadinglists.com/most-important-books-on-astronomy/) was also helpful. I can recommend Sobel's Galileo's Daughter wholeheartedly as an interesting work of literary nonfiction and scientific/astronomical history. 
> 
> Alpha Centauri isn't actually visible from the Northern hemisphere, but Crowley would never let physics get in the way of something Aziraphale wants.


	6. crepes

“We’re going there again, aren’t we?” 

“Of course we are! There’s nowhere better here to get crepes.” 

“In the entire London metropolitan area, the best creperie is a manky old shack with talking anthropomorphic animals painted on it.” 

“Well, perhaps not the best, but certainly the best within a reasonable walking distance.”

“What about that place near Piccadilly? You like that one.” 

“It doesn’t have savoury items, and there’s no point in going to two places so we can both eat.”

“You say this like I actually consume food on a regular basis instead of stealing bites of yours.” 

“That counts! And what if you did feel peckish or even hungry for once and there was nothing you wanted to eat?” 

“I would quietly fade away from starvation, I suppose. Because I couldn’t miracle myself some animal biscuits and a juice box if I felt the need.” 

“If I buy you a ham, gruyere, and spinach will you shut up?”

“No guarantees, but my mouth’ll be full.” 

“Darling, if your mouth being full actually stopped you from making noise I would have you on your knees all the time.” 

“Angel! We were talking about crepes! You can’t just _do_ that!”

“I can and I did. Are you coming with me or not? The line between peckish and hangry is approaching quickly.” 

A sigh. “Somebody, I don’t really care who at this point, give me patience.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to the old Snow White House cart on 10th and Alder in Portland, which really was decorated like that and made excellent sweet and savory crepes.


	7. Mesopotamia

Aziraphale is a bit startled to see Crowley in the kitchen, surrounded by ingredients and scrolling through his phone. Neither of them are much for cooking, but Aziraphale was certain the only thing Crowley knew how to do in the kitchen was put on a kettle, perhaps make a sandwich under extreme duress. 

But no, there’s a strange concoction of garlic, leeks, and blood in a bowl, and some chunks of lamb browning in a large dutch oven. It smells familiar, but it’s not something Aziraphale can easily place. 

“Did you know,” Crowley says, “there are humans who try to recreate recipes they’ve found from ancient records?” 

“How utterly charming,” Aziraphale says, and gets an eye roll (fond, but still an eye roll) in response. “Well, it is! Their attempts to connect to the past and make it relatable to the present are so very… human, I suppose. They live such short lives, but they never stop trying to understand.” 

“Mmph.” Crowley pokes the lamb. “D’you remember what kind of fat they used for this stew in Mesopotamia?” 

Ah, yes; that’s what this is. It was the first time Aziraphale had run into Crowley since leaving the Garden, and they’d eaten this at an inn, along with copious quantities of beer. The proprietor threw them out at closing time, and they tottered back to Crowley’s little house, extremely drunk and not wanting the night to end. 

“I never figured you particularly sentimental, but apparently you’re full of surprises, you old serpent.” 

Crowley scoffs. “Pure coincidence.” 

He does, however, smile when Aziraphale tastes the stew and pronounces it exactly as he remembers, all those centuries ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lamb stew recipe](https://www.ancient-origins.net/artifacts-ancient-writings/babylonian-recipes-0010531)
> 
> [Food archaeology](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/putting-ancient-recipes-plate-classical-recipes-cooking)


	8. ice cream

This one got a little M rated, so I posted it separately [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958764). 

<strike>Also I had a great title and it would have been a pity to not use it</strike>


	9. bookshop

Crowley isn’t much for bookstores (save one), but he has to admit an entire city block devoted to the enterprise is rather impressive. Which is why he’s surprised to see Aziraphale with an expression that somehow manages to convey both a sneer and a sulk.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happier than a pig in mud.”

“It’s too big. There’s too many people.” All right, that’s a fair complaint.

“And it’s just so grossly—commercial.” He sniffs disdainfully.

“Hate to break it to you, angel, but that’s why places like this exist. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’re not doing too well these days.”

“Be that as it may, if you try to appeal to everybody, you serve nobody well. The breadth of this place is certainly large, but renders it useless for even mid-depth study. The state of their feminist and queer studies sections alone—”

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders how difficult it would be to alter the deed of the shop to a private archive instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Powell's is the largest independent bookstore in the US. The flagship Barnes and Noble before it closed in 2014 was the largest bookstore in the US period.


	10. bodyswap

“So tell me, angel, what did you do in my body while we were waiting?” 

“Are you trying to imply I did something inappropriate while we were switched?” 

“Not at all!” A pause. “Unless you did?” 

“Define inappropriate.” 

“Something I wouldn’t normally do, I suppose.” 

“Oh dear. There may have been a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Please don’t get upset.” 

“I reserve the right to be upset about things you did with my body. Autonomy’s important, y’know.”

“I had some tea. I was rather surprised you had any, given how much coffee you drink.”

“Not a thing I do, ‘s true, but hardly inappropriate.” 

“I talked to your plants. Told them how beautiful they are, and how splendidly they’re growing. They seemed confused, but pleased nonetheless.” 

“Of course you did. Ah well. Just means I’ll have to spend a bit more time terrorizing them.” 

“They’re trying their best, dear. Isn’t that enough?” 

“Don’t change the subject. Anything else?” 

“I think that’s it. Now I must know, did you do anything I wouldn’t have?” 

“I took a nap. Your bed is lumpy and your blankets smell funny.” 

“Well it’s hardly an issue when I never use it.” 

“And I may have— Look. If you get upset with me I understand.” 

“What on earth did you do?” 

“I might have, ah, taken your, ah, equipment out for a test drive.”

“Speak plainly, Crowley. If you did something with my body you think I might be upset by I deserve to hear it without euphemism.”

“I had a wank while we were swapped. Is that plain enough? I know I shouldn’t have, but I was stressed and— To be honest, I thought it was the only chance I would get to touch you in that way. It seems ridiculous now, but—” 

“I understand why you thought I might be upset, but it’s… oddly flattering.”

“So you’re not angry?” 

“Surprisingly, no. It’s… rather erotic actually.” 

“Did I awaken something in you, angel? Or were you always this deviant?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to find out.” 

“Is that an invitation?” 

“If you’d like it to be.”

— 

“Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“Did you tell me you’d touched yourself in my body because you were feeling guilty or because you thought it wasn’t something I did?” 

“Both?” 

“I suppose, in the interest of full disclosure, there are more things I did in your body I thought I didn’t need to tell you about.”


	11. Paris

The buildings and paths along the Seine change (less so nowadays, the way it has become built up), but the river itself does not. It is some comfort to Aziraphale that he can still pick out spots where he and Crowley have spent time: La Grande Jatte, of course, where they strolled amongst the artists, famous and not; as well as the Pont des Arts, where they’ve watched the Louvre spread throughout the centuries.

“Did you know, angel, some humans build up the notion of Paris so much they actually get sick when it doesn’t look like it does in the movies and photographs?” 

“That’s terribly sad, to look forward to a place you’ve wanted to visit and find that it’s very much not like you imagined when you arrive.” Aziraphale replies. 

“It is, but nothing’s perfect and it’s silly to expect it to be.” 

“We have the privilege of being able to revisit places and see them change over centuries. It’s hard to romanticize Paris, or any other city, when we’ve seen the worst it has to offer. At least they don’t dump chamber pots directly into the street anymore.” 

“No more Bastille, that’s a plus.” 

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” 

“Ow!” Crowley glares when Aziraphale swats his arm. “I was speaking in general, but no.” 

“All those humans, though. So many of them will get only this one chance to visit this place, and to have that experience ruined by unrealistic expectations?” Aziraphale leans against Crowley’s shoulder and radiates subtle discontent. 

Crowley sighs. “I’m adjusting expectations for those tourists so they can be saved from themselves. Are you happy?” 

Aziraphale pecks him on the cheek, all brilliant and smiling now. “That’s very kind of you, my dear.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes and turns a little pink. “But I’m not doing anything about the rude Parisiens. They’ll have to fend for themselves there.”

“There’s a difference between a minor miracle and an act of God, darling. And to be honest, I’m not sure She could do much about it either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Paris Syndrome](https://www.thedailybeast.com/paris-syndrome-really-how-the-city-of-light-gives-people-the-blues) is a thing, even if not clinically recognized. I think it's kind of racist to characterize it as a mostly Japanese phenomenon tbh, when we don't pathologize the culture shock of people from other places the same way. So yeah. Keep your expectations realistic.


	12. Crowley's flat

Aziraphale has never really spent much time in Crowley’s flat before the cancelling of the apocalypse. It’s sparse, but it would be incorrect to say there are no touches of personality to it. There is the eagle lectern from the old church, although he wonders when and how Crowley would have had the chance to move it. (He’s also curious where exactly Crowley found someone to deconsecrate it, as there’s no way he could have existed comfortably in the flat without doing so.)

What he’s most curious about is the sketch of the Mona Lisa. Until he came up close to it, he’d never noticed the inscription: Al mio amico Antonio dal tuo amico Leo da V. 

“He always said he’d gotten it right in the drafts. The smile, I mean. I have to say I agreed, which is why I bought it off him.” There’s a wistfulness in Crowley’s voice that Aziraphale’s not sure he’s ever heard before. 

“Were you close, then?” Aziraphale asks.

“Like you and Oscar Wilde close?” Crowley smirks and Aziraphale glares. “Nah, wasn’t like that. I was in Milan when somebody mentioned there was a jack of all trades working for the Duke, and he was brilliant. I bought him a drink, and next thing I know we’re both yelling about the stupidity of allowing men of letters to make decisions about science. Suppose we were destined to be friends at that point.” 

“Was it very difficult, when he passed away?” They hadn’t seen each other much between the 14th and 17th centuries, but Aziraphale recalled a distinct pall in Crowley’s face when he asked for assistance with a miracle in the 1520s. 

“It’s inevitable, always. You think you’ll get used to it, and I suppose you do, but some of them hurt more than others. This one? Definitely.” 

Aziraphale pats his hand and recalls hearing the news from Paris in 1900. “Yes, some of them do.” 

“Still. A privilege. To know him, to be his friend. Worth all the heartache afterwards.” Crowley slings an arm around his shoulders. “I hope it was for you too.” 

“Thank you, darling. It was.” 

A pause. “You know, you’ve never told me about acquiring that statue. The one of the angels wrestling.” 

“Yes. Wrestling. That’s exactly what they’re doing. Wrestling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed that only places are consecrated, not the things within them. So now you know too.


	13. godparents

“You know, I miss him.” Crowley says, out of the blue.

“Who?” 

“Our erstwhile charge. Who we abandoned rather quickly once we realized he was the wrong boy.” 

Ah, yes. That. “So you want to go back to the subterfuge? I don’t know about you, but I’m rather keen on not having to work around a young child’s schedule. Also the teeth were a bit much.”

Crowley snorts. “Nothing said you needed to have them. That terrible decision was all yours.” 

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Anyways. Adam has a whole community of people around him. They love him, he loves them, they’ll take care of him. He doesn’t need us. But who does Warlock have now that Nanny and Brother Francis are gone? His mum, and... “

“I see your point.” 

— 

“Anthony! Ezra! It’s so good to see you!” Harriet embraces them warmly, kissing their cheeks. “It’s been ridiculous around here, what with the sudden departure of Lockie’s nanny and the gardener at the same time. Thank you so much for offering to take him for a little bit.” 

“What else are godfathers for, my dear?” Aziraphale smiles beneficently. 

“I know Thaddeus wasn’t too keen on the idea at first, but how could more people in our son’s life who want the best for him be bad?” 

“Glad he made the correct decision then,” Crowley says, only a little disdainfully. 

“But enough from me. I know you’re dying to see him.” She calls out to the back of the house. “Lockie, sweetheart! We have special visitors!” 

“Mom, I told you, stop calling me that!” Warlock has an irritable expression on his face that disappears as soon as he sees the two of them.

“Uncle Anthony! Uncle Ezra!” He launches himself at them, hugging them in turn. 

Crowley tries to lift him up and fails miserably. “Oof! You’ve grown so much since we saw you last!” 

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale says softly. It’s not technically a lie, because it feels like it’s been ages. A lifetime ago, practically. 

“Then we’ve got lots of catching up to do. Come on!” He grabs both their hands and tugs them towards the Bentley. They barely have time to yell goodbye at Harriet before they’re out the door.


	14. miracles

Maybe it’s because Crowley’s been binging too much of the show about the afterlife and moral philosophy (he met most of the people they discuss; mostly wankers, but especially Kant), but he’s been thinking about utilitarianism and suffering. Not in the sentience is a prerequisite for understanding suffering so the best way to reduce it in aggregate is to make sure nothing smarter than a paramecium should survive way (and what a bunch of bleak, drippy shitheads those people are); but in the stupid, sad, and infuriating way how so many people’s lives would be made easier with a little more money the rich folks wouldn’t even miss. 

He’s not going to Robin Hood the enterprise—too risky and not worth the effort when he can literally conjure money out of thin air. So he makes himself some stacks of quid and wanders around St. James Park. 

The thing that strikes him is how thin the line between solvency and desperation is, and how a little bit of generosity is enough to ensure a family stays housed, a kid keeps going to school, a pensioner doesn’t have to decide between food and heat. He slips the money into pockets and strollers with a note (he tried just with the cash, but an utterly ridiculous number of people just turned it into the nearest police station). And to be honest, he’s not sure what people are more grateful for: the money or tangible evidence somebody, anybody cares. 

A blessing, a miracle, people think, so loudly he doesn’t know how the angel can’t pick it up in Soho. Not that he tells Aziraphale about what he’s done. A good deed done for recognition isn’t really much of a good deed at all.


	15. Rome

“Do you think all roads really do lead to Rome?” Aziraphale asks.

“What?” Crowley says, because it’s fuck o’clock in the morning and they’re both soused. 

“I mean metaphorically. Of course they don’t all lead there nowadays.” 

“For the metaphor to make sense you also have to have the other part. The thing that the road is like.” Why the angel is trying to talk about things that are like other things right now is beyond him.

“Destiny. Foreordination. The inevitability of things turning out as they should. That’s the other part. What the road is like.” 

Crowley’s head hurts. It has nothing to do with the wine (or the sherry). “If things were meant to turn out this way, then we’re supposed to be here. On this couch in your bookshop.” He threads his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “With me holding your hand.” 

Aziraphale smiles. He’s pretty sure there’s a flaw in the argument somewhere, but it’s not important enough to bring up, when he could be kissing Crowley instead. After doing so, he’s not even sure why it was a concern to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Europe, and the US surprisingly, it turns out that eventually, [all roads do](https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/9an8gy/do-all-roads-lead-to-rome-the-answer-is-surprisingly-beautiful).


	16. first times

It is perhaps because he is old, but Crowley has never seen the point of firsts. Certainly he's witnessed many of them, but after the first Temptation the gloss wears off a little bit, y'know?

No, he takes that back. There is one first he holds close that is inscribed upon the very nature of his being. Standing next to Aziraphale on the wall of the Garden, watching the first storm roll in. The droplets pattered on his face and wings, pleasant at first but then becoming vexing. The angel (he hadn't even known his name at that point) raised his wing and looked at him. _You don't have to, but if you like, I will shelter and protect you, even if it's only in this one small way. _

There’s no way he could have known then how it would change his life. If he could tell something to his much younger self, maybe he would say: _This is just the beginning. It’s going to get so much better from here on out._


	17. church

Aziraphale has always wondered about what in the human brain always manages to link sex to religiosity. Not necessarily in the “make it weird/awkward/shameful” sense, but the way they seem to be so close together.

He’s had sex. It is, after all, a pleasure of the flesh, and there are few he does not try at least once. It’s nice, to be able to make somebody feel that good and vice versa; but there’s nothing transcendent about it. He feels none of the sublimity or awe of contemplating the ocean, looking up at the stars, or even when eating a perfectly ripe strawberry.

It isn’t until he kisses Crowley and Crowley kisses back that he finally understands. _We make this holy, with our bodies and minds and words. I consecrate your skin with my hands, my mouth, my tongue. You bless me with the noises you make, the way you tell me how you like it, when you say my name. Our communion requires no baptism, anointing, declaration of faith. We need only open our hearts and let the other in until we are full: overflowing, joyous, thankful. I love you._


	18. you go too fast for me

Almost as soon as the lock is turned, Aziraphale’s hand is down Crowley’s pants. Given how tight these skinny jeans are, a miracle is definitely involved. 

“Normally I would delight in drawing this out, my love, but it is a short interval,” he murmurs into Crowley’s ear. “So if you’re feeling, ah, expedient, it would be lovely if you got a move on.”

Crowley would laugh, if he wasn’t already dangerously close. “I see how it is—you want me to go fast only when it suits you.” 

Aziraphale’s hand stills. “If that bothers you, I could stop?” His tone is saccharine solicitous, and oh how Crowley wants to be able to slam him against a wall and give him a taste of his own medicine. 

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare, you bastard.” 

“I thought that was one of the reasons why you liked me.” His fake pout is infuriating and, Satan help him, endearing in equal measure. 

Crowley settles for kissing him hard, because that at least shuts him up. He comes gasping in Aziraphale’s mouth, and it turns out it’s the right speed for both of them after all.


	19. Regency

“The Dowlings were very kind to keep me on past the usual age. But if I do not find myself a husband soon, I will need to secure another position. Unfortunately, nobody wants an old spinster hanging about if they can help it.” Miss Crowley’s mouth twists unhappily, and Avery feels helpless to do anything about it.

“My dear, surely you cannot be considered… past your prime? You are not even thirty!” 

She looks at him like he really is daft. “Perhaps there is some magical land where a woman is not measured and weighed like a prize steer, a place she can support herself by her wits and her labour without depending on a man. If you find it, Mr. Fell, please let me know, as I would very much like to book passage.” 

Miss Crowley is headstrong, outspoken. She is nothing she “should” be, and that is what makes Avery... fond of her. 

“Forgive me, Miss Crowley. I spoke as if I had any insight into a woman’s concerns and worries, which I apparently do not.” 

She smiles, and he can see something flicker behind her eyes: adjustment, reassessment perhaps. (They are such lovely eyes. He could spend hours gazing into them.) 

“It is not the custom of men to admit there are things in this world they do not understand, especially as they pertain to the fairer sex. You are unusual in that regard, Mr. Fell.” 

“Perhaps if there were more women like you they would be apprised of their ignorance.” She flushes at that, and Avery very badly wants to take her hand. 

The sky turns dark suddenly, and rain begins to fall without warning. Miss Crowley makes a dismayed noise and throws her shawl over her head. Avery is grateful he brought his umbrella, even though everybody scoffed to see it. 

He opens the umbrella, and they crowd underneath its shelter. Miss Crowley’s shawl is waterlogged, despite the brief time it was exposed. Avery takes off his coat and wraps it round her shoulders. 

“My guardian angel,” she says, half joking, but she pulls the coat tighter around her. 

“Please, call me Avery,” he says. 

Another smile. “Then you must call me Antonia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antonia is pronounced with stress on the first syllable, per this song.


	20. apocalypse

It’s one of those winter days where it’s been gray and pissing rain for what seems like weeks. Staying inside has lost pretty much all of its charm, but going outside for anything but the necessary is unthinkable. So of course the only logical thing to do is to start needling each other. 

Aziraphale gets snippy when he finds out Crowley ate all the profiteroles he was saving for tea. Crowley points to the piles of books that have wandered out of their usual and agreed-upon rooms. Somehow this becomes a forum on how Crowley treats the plants. 

“It’s not the end of the bloody world if they hear a kind word every now and then!” Aziraphale snaps. 

Crowley pauses, and then starts giggling. It’s not really that funny, unless you’ve survived/averted an attempt at apocalypse recently. Then it’s fucking hilarious. 

“For the love of—” Aziraphale huffs, but then he starts laughing too. 

There’s a difference between talking about an event and processing its magnitude. Of course they’ve done the former. It’s difficult not to. The latter is probably overdue. 

For long minutes, they just laugh. If it’s tinged with just an edge of hysteria, well, nobody else will be able to prove anything. And then they try and stop, but look at the other person and get set off again. It winds down eventually, wiping tears off their faces and making expressions at how their diaphragm muscles twinge. 

“I’ll go get you more cream puffs,” Crowley says. “From the good place further out.” 

“I shall endeavour to keep the books where they belong.” Aziraphale replies.

Neither statement is really an apology, but they are in the spirit.

And if the plants start hearing compliments and encouragement from both Aziraphale and Crowley? They’re certainly not going to tell anyone, even if they could.


	21. dancing

For someone who claims to have only enjoyed one dance in the history of the world, Aziraphale is remarkably adept at setting the movement and pace of their interactions. Part of this is because Crowley is willing to be lead, a bit like a tiger on a leash. (That’s what he likes to think, at least; as if he wouldn’t come running as soon as Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.)

Dances have root in ritual and ceremony: do these steps, turn this way now, that way afterward because it had Significance at one time and nobody’s bothered to do a reassessment since. Six thousand years is a long time to do things the same way. Crowley is surprised they haven’t worn ruts deeper than those in Roman roads, the way they’ve moved around each other.

And if the near-end of the world isn’t something that makes you wonder what the bloody hell you’ve been doing, nothing else ever will, probably. So Crowley finds the record he wants and puts it in the gramophone. He waits until he can hear Aziraphale approach the back room after closing up before snapping his fingers. Aziraphale is greeted by the strains of big band music as Crowley extends his hand. 

Crowley moves Aziraphale’s arms until they’re clasped round the back of his neck, settling his hands on Aziraphale’s waist. There are no real steps, more just clinging and swaying; but it’s something new, and for now, that’s enough.


	22. Golgotha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If, for some reason, you like reading about these two ruminating about depressing Biblical events, may I suggest you check out [this series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430956) I wrote?

They go to the monastery because they were told it had beautiful gardens (it does). They’re both a little surprised at the replicas of Altar of Calvary and the Garden of Gethsemane. A guide in a ridiculously martial uniform proudly informs them the distance between the crucifixion site and Jesus’s tomb is approximately the same as the original sites in Jerusalem. 

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says politely. “What attention to detail.” 

The guide wanders off to tell some schoolchildren gruesome stories about the martyrdom of Saint Cecilia. 

“That hardly seems appropriate,” he murmurs to Crowley. 

“Children adore the macabre. I think it’s charming, the lack of pretense for civilized niceties,” Crowley replies.

He stares up at the crosses. “I remember it being much dustier. Not humid like this. D’you think this is one of those churches that does the vigil? Where you stand around with a candle looking all sombre and pretend you’re watching him die?”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, much like he did millennia ago. “You know it’s different for humans, dear. There’s no way they can remember what happened, so this helps them… understand, I suppose. It’s not for us.” 

— 

There’s no way the copy of Gethsemane can look like it did originally, but apparently it’s close enough that Aziraphale stops at the entrance, his face ghostly in complexion. 

“You all right, angel?” It’s Crowley’s turn to grab his hand.

Aziraphale points to a spot. There’s a little bit of rock that juts out, a nice flat surface. “I sat there—well a place that was similar— with him the night before his arrest.” 

He takes a breath. “I’d like a drink before we discuss this further. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“So very, very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This place actually exists. It's the [Franciscan Monastery of the Holy Land](https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/2003/05/16/shrine-time-at-the-franciscan-monastery/697c1b70-fb87-4ffc-b7d7-862f3663201e/) in Washington, DC. It contains, along with what's mentioned in the fic, a replica of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, a replica of the Grotto of Lourdes, catacombs, and the remains of a martyred child saint. The [gardens](https://tclf.org/landscapes/franciscan-monastery-holy-land-garden) are quite lovely.
> 
> (Also, there are a surprising number of replicas of Golgotha. It's weird.)


	23. Shakespeare

“I am pretty sure nobody in history has ever decided a good way to foster intimacy between couples is to pick a Shakespearean sonnet that reminds them of their significant other.” Crowley looks up from the page he has open on his phone. “What are these quiz writers on?” 

“I think it’s charming,” Aziraphale says. Of course he does. “It’s much more cultured than comparing movie franchises or bebop albums.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. 

“It would be fun! We can make an afternoon of it and you can write the number of the sonnet down.” It seems to be something the angel really wants, and of course Crowley is a sucker.

He sighs. “I should make you pay for lunch for the rest of the week for this. Hand me a copy.” 

They reconvene after tea. Aziraphale hands him a scrap of paper with a number. 75. Of course he would pick one with a food metaphor. But given the ardor with which he looks at both dessert and Crowley, there is little doubt it is a positive comparison. 

Crowley gives him his answer: 116. Aziraphale looks genuinely affected.

“Oh my dearest, wonderful darling,” he breathes, eyes shimmering. He kisses Crowley on the cheek. Despite a mighty effort otherwise, Crowley smiles.

All right, maybe the quiz writers were on to something after all.


	24. St. James Park

The park is lovely (they wouldn’t keep coming to it otherwise), but sometimes there are just too many people. Crowley has this idle fantasy of mysteriously closing the park for an afternoon, just so he and Aziraphale can have it to themselves. But that is remarkably impractical, and would probably require more effort than he’d get enjoyment out of it. 

So, he compromises. The next time he and Aziraphale go out for a late night meal, he suggests they have a wander by the park. The paths are still well-lit, but there are many clusters of trees off of them where one would be hard-pressed to see anything. 

Well, if one was a human along the path anyways. If a duck happens to get an eyeful? That’s their fault for looking, isn’t it?


	25. fantasy

“Crowley, darling?” 

“Mm?” 

“Tell me, did you ever fantasize about us?” 

“Angel, you must know I did. Even got to act some of them out, which was a treat.” 

“Don’t be vulgar. I mean the non-sexual kind.” 

“You wanted me to be the big scary demon ravishing the captured virginal angel and now you’re scolding me about being vulgar? Were you expecting I had a long-harboured wish to go to Disneyland with you?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. I don’t need to be teased about it.” 

“Angel. Aziraphale.”

“Hmph.”

“Come here. Look, I wasn’t teasing. All the stuff I thought about, fantasized, if you will, I get to do every day with you. I wake up, and you’re in the bed next to me or the next room over. I spend hours in the shop napping while you come up with ridiculous excuses why you can’t sell people books. We have dinner and come back to our home for a nightcap. And then we do it all over again. I’m living the dream, as the humans say.” 

“All right. If you put it that way.” 

“Disneyland sounds pretty frightful actually. Can’t claim it for my former side.”

“Nor mine.” 

“Think you’d look great in a pair of mouse ears though.”

“If you try it I will smite you where you stand; don’t think I won’t.”


	26. confession

“Welcome, my child. Walk in the grace of the Lord’s light.” Aziraphale looks ridiculous in this getup, but if he must play the part, he has to dress it too.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” Crowley says. “It is my first confession. We may be here a while.” 

“How a man of the cloth has avoided the sacrament of confession is almost mysteriously diabolical.” Aziraphale’s voice is dry as sandpaper, and Crowley looks down at the floor so he doesn’t see him smirk. “Perhaps we should start with your most recent transgressions against our Lord.”

“I was willful and disobedient toward my superior. He asked me to do something important, and I deliberately neglected it. This will cause him great strife and inconvenience, and I delighted in that knowledge.” 

A finger under Crowley’s chin tilts his head up, until he’s looking at Aziraphale. “It is good that you confessed, but I am disappointed I did not hear about it until now.” 

“Then I must make my penance to both you and God. It is only right.” He licks his lips, and is gratified to see Aziraphale’s eyes get darker. 

“But before I begin, I should probably confess a couple more things. I lied when I said that was my most recent transgression. I also committed the sin of lust.”

He feels Aziraphale’s hand curve to the side of his face. “Did you now? It appears it is something I’m going to have to question you about in great detail so I can decide what an appropriate penance is.” 

“If you would like, I can show you exactly.” 

“I fear your assertion we’d be here a while was prophetic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sabine, who knows why


	27. wings

The cottage overlooks the sea, and their neighbours can’t see anywhere into the property. (It was especially picked for this feature, but there may have been some strategically miracled vegetation to help it along.) The comparison to Eden is unavoidable, but it’s better, because it is all of their own making. 

The dimensions of the cottage are human-sized, which are perfectly fine for doing things that humans do: cooking, eating, sleeping. It doesn’t leave much room for a proper stretch though, especially if one is in possession of wings. 

So the backyard and the grounds become a place for them to air out their wings. There is something freeing about being able to manifest them into the same plane of existence as their corporations, the way the otherworldly and the physical come together. The first time Aziraphale gives them a proper stretch, it feels like six thousand years of tension just fall away, and he makes a noise that is positively obscene. Crowley notices, of course, and they spend many an evening figuring out other applications for which corporeal wings are useful.

Sometimes, Crowley will wake up before Aziraphale, and go out to the bluff where the ocean is most visible. The wind blows his hair (he’s let it get long again) and it’s bright against his dark wings. If he were to brood it would be very romantic (in both the upper and lower-case senses), but Aziraphale prefers the look of satisfaction, peace almost, he sees instead. 

He runs a hand along Crowley’s wing: a companionable gesture that has not ceased being wondrous. “Come back inside, darling. Your coffee’s ready.”


	28. ring

It’s not often that Crowley feels the desire to eat, but today, it just seems like it would be nice. Perhaps it’s the sea air, or the way the sun glitters on the Aegean. In any case, a lavish breakfast arrives outside the door, accompanied by tiny cups of strong coffee and mint tea. 

Aziraphale raises his head. “Oh, my dear, you spoil me so.” He smiles, half-awake and his hair sleep-mussed, and Crowley wonders if he’ll ever get used to the way his superfluous heart jumps when he sees the angel like that.

“Only so much. ‘M not going to feed you breakfast in bed. Not today, at least.” 

Aziraphale pouts but deigns to get out of bed, putting on a robe. He surveys the platter, looking over the cheese, olives, and dried fruit. There is also an omelette studded with vegetables and round bread made of two strands of twisted dough to accompany it. 

They tuck in, with little conversation exchanged as they eat. They drag the bread through the the drippings in the omelette pan, the chewiness softened by the liquid.

“That was lovely,” Aziraphale sighs. 

Crowley is picking apart a leftover piece of bread. “Well-made, this. It’s impossible to see where it starts and where it ends, but you can see each piece is distinct.” 

Aziraphale makes an acknowledging noise, but Crowley can tell he’s itching for a post-breakfast nap. They really are terrible influences on each other.

— 

Some time after their sojourn in the Aegean, Aziraphale presents Crowley with a little box. His breath catches when he opens it. 

“I thought it was a lovely sentiment, so I had them made. Do you like them?”

Nestled in the box are two identical rings in white and yellow gold. They twine around each other in an endless circle. 

Crowley plucks out one of the rings and slides it onto Aziraphale’s finger. The ring adjusts until it fits round exactly, because it knows what’s good for it.

He clasps Aziraphale’s hand in his own, admiring the result. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bread in question is called a [simit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simit), and it is of Turkish origin. They are very tasty.
> 
> [This](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.handwovenbands.com%2FResources%2Ftwo-tone-18k-yellow-gold-platinum-four-strand-ring.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.handwovenbands.com%2Ffour-strand-closed-weave.htm&docid=Fw7_gp-Tjvf46M&tbnid=O_NiPQbcGA5GHM%3A&vet=10ahUKEwj7ppj0isDlAhVCu54KHeabAAsQMwiaAyg6MDo..i&w=720&h=480&bih=937&biw=1920&q=braided%20ring%20two%20tone&ved=0ahUKEwj7ppj0isDlAhVCu54KHeabAAsQMwiaAyg6MDo&iact=mrc&uact=8) is kind of what I thought the ring would look like. I would have preferred single-strand braids but those are either too narrow or the braids get really chunky.


	29. Bentley

The first time Aziraphale rides in the Bentley he’s too busy reeling from his near-discorporation and seeing Crowley again for the first time in decades to pay attention to it. 

Now that they’ve reacquainted themselves, Aziraphale finds himself oddly… jealous of the car. Crowley fusses over it like a treasured pet, making sure it’s sheltered from rain and snow. Sometimes he talks to it, utter nonsense that should be vaguely embarrassing to overhear but makes Aziraphale scowl (where Crowley can’t see, of course) nonetheless. 

The worst is how he touches it all the time: trailing his fingers along its silhouette, rubbing his thumbs along the steering wheel, patting it affectionately when he leaves it for the night. It’s just a bloody car. There’s no personality, no history to it, unlike a book. 

He revises this opinion after he sees it incinerate on the airfield, even before he catches a glimpse of Crowley’s face. It’s as much a part of Crowley as the bookshop is of him, perhaps more, and it pleases him to see it miraculously restored. 

After their switch back, they go retrieve it from its parking space. Crowley pointedly does not cry when he sees it, hale and unharmed, but he does sniffle a bit. 

As he checks the other parts of the car, Aziraphale runs a hand along its roof, right above the door. “Hello, beautiful. It’s good to have you back.” There’s a low rumble in response, despite the engine being off.


	30. drinking

It’s Crowley’s turn to pick the wine, and he’s opted for a well-aged tempranillo. It’s full-bodied and earthy, with a rich spicy aftertaste that lingers. It’s almost criminally drinkable, something Aziraphale realizes only when they’re uncorking the third bottle. 

Or maybe it’s the company. They’ve been lounging on the couch, talking about everything and nothing in particular. It’s the time of night where things have lapsed into a comfortable, companionable silence, everything made warm and rosy through a haze of alcohol. 

“There are so many other poems about alcohol, but it’s always ‘kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine’. Nothing against Solomon, but there’s so much more that can be said.” Crowley’s got that look on his face, the one that indicates he could go off in this vein for quite a while if he was allowed. 

“It’s not just about wine, dear,” Aziraphale says mildly. “You don’t read much, but even you know that.”

“‘S all very lovely with the similes, all that comparison to the sun and the moon and the gazelles. But fresh perspectives are good too.” 

Aziraphale stretches out on the couch in what he hopes is an enticing manner. “If you’d care to explain, I’m happy to listen.” 

Crowley moves closer, until he’s sitting on Aziraphale’s lap. He kisses Aziraphale then, the taste of wine heavy on his lips, and starts reciting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://spanishpoems.blogspot.com/2005/02/pablo-neruda-oda-al-vino.html) is the poem I had in mind. No translator is cited, alas, or I would ask them why they decided to use "lascivious" for "desordenado".
> 
> If you have any interest in the Song of Solomon and Good Omens my friend Sabine wrote [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291263) about that.


	31. anything you want

“That’s quite an array of choices, my dear. Are you sure?” 

“Like I said, angel, anything you want.” 

“You spoil me so disgracefully.” 

“What’s the point of saving the world if you don’t get to enjoy the things in them? Or watch you do so? Besides, you love it.”

“I love it because you’re doing it. Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Hard not to when you’re being so soppy.” 

“Then why are you blushing?” 

“I’m not. It’s cold in here!”

“If you say so.”

“Hurry up and pick. We haven’t got all day.”

“No, my darling, we have the rest of our lives, and I am going to take as long as I please.”

“I have made some poor choices.”

“You’re certainly not going to think so when I rail you into the mattress whilst wearing something I pick out.”

“Jesus fucking christ, angel. You can’t just say things like that.”

“Leave that poor boy out of this. Now tell me, do you like the red or the black better?”

“If I say both are good will we leave sooner?”

“I suppose.”

“Then get them both, and I can compare at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Thanks for coming along for the ride!


End file.
